


New Tricks

by veronamay



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e16 Risk, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who's looking after you these days?" Joan asks.</p><p>"Someone new."</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Tricks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemmealone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemmealone/gifts), [lydia_petze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lydia_petze/gifts).



> Idea stolen wholesale from a random comment by lemmealone. Gifted to lemmealone and lydia_petze, just because.

"Who's looking after you these days?" Joan asks.

"Someone new."

Finch pauses. That's … unexpected. He adjusts his glasses absently, staring at his reflection in the monitor. The myriad other items claiming his attention drop sharply away, and Finch focuses solely on the faint sound of John's breathing.

There's nothing for a long time; and nothing, and nothing. John walks, and Finch listens, and Harold closes his eyes and waits.

And then, "This is a really nice suit, Finch," John says. "Adam's jaw nearly hit the floor when he saw it. And he's a three-thousand-dollar-suit kind of guy. What's the price tag on this--about five?"

 _Closer to twelve_ , Harold doesn't say, because nobody pays that much for a suit, and John would only misinterpret the information. Instead he murmurs, "Something like that."

He can hear John's smirk. It never ceases to be astonishing, that he can do that.

That's all there is for a while. Finch opens his eyes, blinks, and begins to consider another cup of tea. John's breathing continues steady as a metronome.

Harold is still waiting.

"Harold," John says--and that is frankly incredible, because John isn't talking to Finch now, not with that tone of voice, and the fact that he can parse the difference makes Harold slightly vertiginous--"Harold, are you listening?"

"Y-yes." Harold swallows. His hands are claws, clinging to the edge of the desk.

"I'm coming to you." John's voice is soft. "Time to make a decision."

He ends the call, but makes no effort to evade Finch's notice; GPS tracking and wi-fi are still active, unlike the times John has gone AWOL. It's a token gesture, but tokens have power. Harold pulls up a map, finds John's signal, and watches him draw closer.

When John hits the two-block radius, Harold leaves the desk. He's re-reading _Neuromancer_ ; man cannot live on Dickens alone. There's an armchair hidden against the outer wall behind the first row of bookshelves. It catches the sunlight, when there's any to be had.

By the time John's footsteps echo on the stairs, Finch is lost in dystopic prose. Harold is sunk deep, waiting (always waiting).

"Harold?"

John's voice is so quiet. Harold can always hear every word.

He still holds the book, but now Finch is nowhere to be found. Dust motes are meandering their way through the air. His throat is dry. He never did make that tea.

John rounds the stack and stops, watching. There's tension in the line of his shoulders, but he seems otherwise relaxed. Harold flexes his fingers on thin cardboard.

"Sit."

An infinite moment of stillness (waiting, waiting); it lengthens until Harold begins to fear he's made an error.

John glides forward, the five steps necessary to bring him into Harold's space, the cushion placed on the floor to his right. John folds to the floor gracefully, easily; tucks himself against Harold's leg without a word. Harold turns a page. He's read this book many times. The text is incomprehensible.

" _Stay._ "

John tilts his head against Harold's knee; the lightest of touches. Harold turns another page and drops his right hand into John's hair.

"Good boy."

END


End file.
